I could hear the boisterous wind charging through the icy caverns of
the station. My polished, black leather shoes padded against the
escalator stairs, as I rubbed at the chafing collar of my shirt, aware
of the irritating dampness. Everything seemed to be going against me.
Morality had a vice-like grip on my stiff shoulders, and it was
beginning to yank me back. Gripping the cold handle of my briefcase
offered some reassurance, but remembering the contents sent an ominous
shiver up my spine. They did not say the first job would be so hard.
The grime, embedded in the rugged tiles, added to the dingy,
depressing surroundings. A crumpled crisp packet flitted across the
surface, as another tube roared past. It was as if I had just entered
the minotaur's den, and luckily escaped the clutches of the savage
beast. I began to walk more briskly, as an unpleasant stench wafted
from the nearby toilets. Had they never heard of such a thing as
disinfectant or cleaners? Inefficiency is a rapidly spreading disease,
and it needs a cure soon. Failure to succeed, especially in my line of
work, has inconceivable consequences. The relative quiet was broken by
the monotonous drone of the loudspeaker dictating various platforms,
and a raucous group of youths. I glowered at them as they began
ridiculing a humble tramp who was coughing vigorously, blatantly
distressed. My moral arrow told me I should go and prevent this,
however the objectives involved avoiding all human contact. The one on
the left hand side, a stocky teenager with a crew cut and a hideous
earring, began making offensive gestures with his free hand, the o...
... middle of paper ...
... enveloped the tube.
Muffled groans broke the silence. The sprucely dressed man with
polished hair flicked on his lighter, and activated his phone beam.
Beside him was a balding man, blood oozing from a deep gash in his
chest. The man with the lighter sat up abruptly, a concerned look on
his face. He hastily removed his jacket, and applied it to the wound,
in an attempt to prevent the blood loss. The balding man grunted,
croaking for assistance.
A creased picture caught the eye of the suavely dressed man. It was
beside the ravaged hand of the balding man. He frowned, recognising
the picture's familiarity. On the back, scribbled in red writing, was
the word target. Before acting, he reached for the weighty briefcase
that was crushing his foot. He began to click it open. The balding
man's left eye fluttered open.
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